


Three's a charm

by Lilith_the_ancient



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Height difference, M/M, No Incest, Post Reichenbach, Some humour later on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 14:09:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilith_the_ancient/pseuds/Lilith_the_ancient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Incidents linked by the number 3 showing John's life post-Reichenbach. John is devastated and unable to move on after Sherlock's death. Mycroft, guilt ridden over his own role in the incident, takes it upon himself to look after John. Unintentionally, over time their lives become interwoven. But then Sherlock comes back and plunges everything into chaos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kidos go out to my darling Bibi (ohteepeeh.tumblr.com) for her very encouraging and useful comments. Without her I would have probably binned this a long time ago.
> 
> This was originally meant to be a series of drabbles, but has spiralled completely out of control.

1.

 

Three days after Sherlock was pronounced dead, the funeral was held. It was incidentally also when it finally dawned on doctor John Watson that he had been in love with his best friend the whole time, without allowing himself to admit it. It seemed a silly and slightly useless thing to realize, now that it no longer mattered. On the other hand, it felt more appropriate for a grieving lover that for an army doctor whose flatmate had committed suicide to be begging a gravestone for one more miracle. 

 

The service was quiet, with only a handful of people having turned up. John was not surprised, considering the circumstances of Sherlock´s death and the headlines still calling him a criminal mastermind. He was not upset by the low turn-up. This was how Sherlock would have liked it, he reckoned.

 

With Mrs. Hudson crying on his shoulder and the pastor’s quiet words droning on in the background, his own emotions strangely dimmed - like the deafness one experiences after a grenade has gone off too close - feeling detached from his environment. His eyes started wandering over the small group gathered and came to rest on Mycroft at the back.

 

Sherlock’s brother was as usual impeccably dressed, a pleasantly neutral look on his face and an impenetrable air around him. He found himself curious as to what lay behind that carefully cultivated mask. Did he feel guilt? Sadness? Did he miss Sherlock as much as John did? Or was he glad to be rid of his troublesome brother. For some reason John had to know.

 

After the service, Mycroft made an attempt to disappear into the shadows, Anthea and his trusted black Audi already waiting, but John intercepted him. He needed to know.

 

“You don’t believe them, do you? That he was a criminal. Because, I know how this looks and what everyone seems to be whispering and…”

 

“No,” came the soft reply. Just a negative, the word not betraying any feeling behind it, only intended to soothe John, not soothing in itself. John wondered, not for the first time, if the eldest Holmes was even capable of human emotion, was he even affected by his brother’s death or was he glad for not having to clean up his messes anymore? He caught himself before he could lash out. He did not want to fight with Mycroft, definitely not at a funeral, and now that he had his answer, there was no point to continue this conversation. He mumbled his condolences and made his way back to Mrs. Hudson.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

 

Three weeks after Sherlock was pronounced dead, and just at the point when John thought he would start climbing the walls, the doorbell of 221B rang. It was Mycroft. John had not seen him since the funeral, and his sudden, unannounced visit was more of a surprise than the impromptu kidnappings he used to stage when Sherlock was still around, but frankly, he was happy to have a distraction from his thoughts, even a distraction in the dubious form of Sherlock Holmes’ older brother.

 

John invited him in and offered to make them tea, because he could still faintly remember that was what civilised people did. People who did not forgo food for days or shoot at the wall when they were bored. Mycroft declined, saying he still had a crisis in the Middle East to attend to shortly. John had no idea if that was an attempt at a joke.

 

Mycroft handed him a stack of papers and John was momentarily reminded of the business with Irene Adler. Was Mycroft there to explain how sure he was Sherlock was dead and to show him evidence? Because that would just be cruel.

 

Instead Mycroft explained that the papers were for the flat. He had paid Sherlock’s share of the rent for the next five years and that John was welcome to stay living there, should he want to, as long as he would not toss out Sherlock´s things, but relocate them to his old room.

 

John was surprised and touched by this gesture, even though he was not sure what had prompted it. Was he looking after John, because he though Sherlock would have wanted that? Was Mycroft as unable to let go of Sherlock as he was? Keeping this apartment as some sort of shrine for his deceased brother?

 

Suddenly John could see himself living there, month after month, year after year, seeing Sherlock everywhere, hearing his voice in the creaking of old furniture, watching Mrs. Hudson look at him with pity. A lost case, withering away in an apartment, old and alone. That thought was too much, he felt himself suffocating.

 

“As kind and generous your offer is, Mycroft, I think I would rather look for something  else.”

 

Mycroft, unperturbed, produced an envelope from his briefcase. “I expected you would. So I took the liberty to look at some government-owned properties for you. I think this, albeit no Baker Street,  would fall within your budget and your wishes.”

 

John read through the papers, his eyebrows rising at the location and price. “This…this is great! How did you find something so cheap in London?”

 

Mycroft allowed himself a small, secretive smile. “I have my resources.”

 

John frowned. A Holmes doing something charitable? “What’s the catch?”

 

The smile grew into a full-on laugh. “No catch. You have my word. You fascinate me doctor. You’re a dying breed: a good man. Besides, when we first met, I asked you to look after my brother…”

 

John let out a mirthless laugh, “and look what a good job I did!”

 

“Oh but you _have_ done a good job. A better job than I could have done, that’s for sure. I’ve never seen my brother happier than during the time he has spent with you.”

 

John was still unconvinced and remained morose. Mycroft turned to leave, then halted, his neutrally pleasant expression cracking for a moment to show real emotion and placed his hand fleetingly on John’s shoulder. “Take care of yourself, John. You need to get on with your life.”

 

Then he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

Three months after Sherlock was pronounced dead, John had settled down in his new flat in Notting Hill and his new part-time job as an emergency room attendant. He was overqualified, but it paid the bills. He got up in the morning, made breakfast, went to work, came back, ate dinner, stared at the television and went to bed. Occasionally Greg would ask John to join him at the pub, to which he sporadically agreed.

 

Nothing had changed. ´Get on with your life´, Mycroft had said, but it was as if John had forgotten how to do that. Everything seemed dull, dimmed and devoid of all colour. In the army, he had known how to deal with death, but here, in the real world, he just could not get the hang of it. That was when Mycroft visited again. Unannounced and seemingly unprompted he appeared on John’s doorstep. John made them tea and asked how work was.

 

Mycroft ignored his enquiries and instead stated: “This is not healthy, John. You are not well, not even on the way to recovery. This is not what Sherlock would have wanted.”

 

For some reason his presence and words penetrated the haze that had permeated John´s life since the funeral. He suddenly felt the pain that came with missing Sherlock, but there was a distracting agitation and a growing anger at Mycroft as well. What did he know about what Sherlock would have wanted? He had never truly understood his brother. Probably never even tried. Who was he to tell John how to grieve? Should he not be at home wrecked with guilt about the role he had played in Sherlock’s death? John was. He felt so guilty for leaving Sherlock alone, for trusting that clearly fake phone call, for saying those horrible things to Sherlock, for not being able to protect him, not being able to save him. Not Mycroft, there he was, calmly sipping his tea and telling John once again to move on with his life.

 

John was suddenly so blinded by anger, that he did not realize he had leaped to his feet and balled his hands into fists. Mycroft got up as well, towering over John. Not wanting to appear menacing, he took a step back towards the door, which just prompted John to step forward.

 

“Not healthy? At least I’m showing genuine human emotion. Have you even grieved for Sherlock or are you truly that indifferent? Is it just as well that your annoying little brother isn’t there anymore to make your life more difficult? Is that why you didn’t hesitate to give Moriarty everything he wanted? Don’t you feel the least bit guilty?” John had been yelling so hard, he ran out of breath. In the moment he needed to gulp in a breath, he noticed that Mycroft probably did feel guilty, judging by the stricken look on his face. But he was still calm and composed otherwise.

 

To John, who was completely overwhelmed by his emotions, Mycroft’s calm was infuriating, he stumbled forward and took a swing at the taller man. Mycroft reacted lightning-fast, more reflex than intent. Moving one foot back and leaning his body backwards, he successfully avoided contact while simultaneously with one hand extending his umbrella to trip John and with the other grabbing John’s fist and twisting his arm behind his back. This resulted in John crashing full-body into the door.

 

Just as quickly as the anger had risen, it dissipated, like a deflating balloon, leaving John slumped against the door, shivering lightly. He felt moisture on his face and thought that he had hit his head harder than he had expected and was bleeding. It took him a moment to realize that he was crying.

 

John had not been able to cry outside St. Bart´s, nor at the funeral. In fact, this was the first time the dull, overwhelming ache in his chest had turned into tears. Together with the realization came ugly, wrecking sobs and full-body shudders. John cried like a child, finally able to have an outlet for the emotions that had been bottled-up inside him for months. The feeling was liberating, but also coupled with shame. Of all opportunities he had had to break down, why did his body choose to let it all go in front of Mycroft?

 

John tried to stop crying, but found he could not. The harder he tried, the closer he was getting to hysterics.

 

Suddenly there were hands carefully turning and propping him up against the door, stroking his arms, shoulders, hair. The ministrations were soothing, but he still could not stop the sobs that wrecked through his body and he closed his eyes in embarrassment. Then there were soft hands on his face, wiping his tears away and tilting his head with surprising gentleness.

 

John’s world came to a screeching halt when he felt warm lips connect with his own.

 

Some months later, after he had gotten to know Mycroft better, John realized that while Mycroft was significantly better than his brother in recognizing and applying socially acceptable and expected behaviour, he was, just like his brother, lost when it came to showing emotion or compassion, preferring to delegate such things as, for example, consoling a crying doctor. Confronted with a situation where he was stuck with arms full of said doctor, he did the next best thing: he provided a distraction.

 

And what a distraction it was! John’s mind had been wiped completely clean of any remaining thought. The kiss, barely more than a touch of lips, so unexpected and shocking that John forgot how to breathe.

 

John´s body recovered before his brain did and started to kiss back. And by the time his brain caught up, he was enjoying himself too much to stop what was happening. Mycroft proved to be a particularly skilled kisser and considering John had already come to terms that he was not as heterosexual as he had thought and was able to be in love with another man, a bit of heavy petting was not really that earth shattering on the greater scale of things. Besides, his whole being was screaming out for pleasure, for finally a different emotion than dull despair.

 

His face was still wet with tears and his hands grasped frantically at Mycroft’s arms. The kiss turned sloppy, noses bumping, teeth clashing, saliva mixing with tears. John was trying to get Mycroft closer still, pulling at his shoulders, jacket,  hair, attempting to climb the taller man. Mycroft bowed down to accommodate the height difference and insinuated his knee between John´s legs, pressing up and rubbing against his denim covered erection. John let out a guttural groan, finally breaking the kiss, and gasped in lungfuls of air, just to resume kissing with even more fervour. John´s hands took hold of Mycroft´s arse and pulled him impossibly close in a mindless rut. It was Mycroft´s turn to gasp. The ever so calm and collected Mycroft was flushed deep red, hair tousled, clothes dishevelled, mouth bruised and looking slightly dazed. John felt immensely proud of this achievement. But then as Mycroft´s hands made short work of his flies and slender fingers took a firm hold of his cock, he lost the ability to feel any emotion apart from lust.

 

His body starved for stimulation, and Mycroft´s hands proving very talented, John did not last very long. He came with a drawn-out groan and hazily, still half in the throes of climax, noticed Mycroft opening his own trousers and finishing himself with a couple of quick strokes.

 

For a moment they both panted against each other, coming down from their orgasms. Then Mycroft took out a handkerchief and cleaned them up as much as possible, arranging their clothes into some semblance of decency. His face was still flushed and he seemed unsure where to look.

 

“I, um, I apologize. I’m not usually that…forward.”

 

John, still blissed out from their activities and even less sure of how to react than Mycroft, shrugged, “It’s, alright, good, actually, that was, good, I mean. Nice. I enjoyed it. Uh…”

 

“Right, good, I…I probably should be going…” Mycroft looked around as John moved away from the door to grant him access. He was nearly down the stairs, then almost as an afterthought, turned around and looked John in the eye. “I do, you know. Feel guilty that is, for what happened. All the time.” Before John´s still somewhat scrambled brain could make sense of that statement, Mycroft was gone.   

 

Suddenly John felt really sorry for his outburst and for letting his anger take over and taking it out on Mycroft, who had only tried to help. He was, however, not sorry for where it had led them.

 

Looking around, John noticed that Mycroft had forgotten his umbrella in the hall. He was about to grab it and run after him, to catch up with him before he drove off, but then he realized that Mycroft would never forget something as essentially part of him as his umbrella and smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because it was unclear to a few people who read this chapter before I published it, let me just explicitely state that John and Sherlock were not in any kind of romantic or sexual relationship prior to his 'death'/this chapter. 
> 
> Mycrofts feelings and (prior) intentions are a mystery on purpose as this story is written from John's perspective.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long and that this chappy is a bit short. Very Mycroft centric (from John’s point of view of course).

4.

 

Thirty three months after Sherlock was pronounced dead, Mycroft’s phone went off in the middle of the night. John blearily opened one eye and groggily inquired: “What time is it?”

 

Mycroft, already up and about to start brushing his teeth, glanced at his watch and replied: “It’s 4.23.”

 

“Isn’t it a bit rude to call someone at  four thirty in the morning?”

 

“Yes, yes it is,” Mycroft agreed. “However, it’s not four thirty in Abu Dhabi.”

 

“Naturally,” said John, rolling his eyes, a gesture Mycroft missed, as he was busy putting his clothes on with inhuman speed.

 

John had a theory that Mycroft only had two settings: fast asleep and wide awake. Where John was stumbling about like a blind hedgehog in the morning before he had had his shower, tea and toast, Mycroft could get ready to deal with any matter of national security in a few minutes, no matter at what ungodly hour he was roused. John once told him: ‘You don’t sleep, you wait’ and when Mycroft failed to understand the reference, started to laugh much louder than was appropriate. Mycroft had sulked for the next two weeks and refused to contact him. When confronted, he pretended he had been busy preventing a war.

 

John felt soft lips brush over his and saw Mycroft grabbing his umbrella from near the door with one hand and high-speed texting someone with the other.

 

“Go back to sleep, John.” Then the bedroom door shut with a soft click.

 

 

Getting back to sleep proved harder than expected. John´s thoughts started wandering to when he first moved into his flat, how different things had been back then. He had changed jobs more often than he cared to remembered since then, changed girlfriends too, changed furniture, changed clothes, even friends. Surprisingly, Mycroft of all people, had been the only constant in his life.

 

A few days after their first frantic fumble against the door, Mycroft had come back under the pretence of retrieving his umbrella, both of them knowing he could have sent Anthea or anyone else to do that and that he had not actually forgotten it in the first place, but pretending otherwise. John had offered tea again.

 

They had actually managed to reach the bedroom, at some point at least.

 

Over time, Mycroft´s visits turned from sporadic to regular and John was surprised how much he looked forward to seeing him and how much he enjoyed unravelling Mycroft´s character traits bit by bit.

 

Mycroft was a man of mystery, his secrets both his strength and his weakness.

 

Sherlock had conceded that Mycroft was clever, very clever. A proper genius, like him. But he thought he lacked ambition and was lazy. John found that was not really the case. Where Sherlock needed an audience, needed to prove to the world at large how good he was, Mycroft was much more interested in making himself both indispensable and invisible. Yes, he did like the power he possessed, but he did not feel the need to flaunt it.

 

Mycroft did not want to be at the mercy of others. If difficult choices had to be made, he preferred to make them himself. This of course put the weight of the world on his shoulders, or at the very least England and Wales. It made romantic entanglements difficult, near impossible. Mycroft could not talk about his work, worked long hours, had to be out of the country for long periods of time at least once a month and could be called away on an emergency at any given moment. Not to forget, the risk associated with his position. While he was not a famous public figure, people who mattered were well aware of who he was and his influence, especially when this influence had been detrimental to their position. Of course, being with Mycroft was not nearly as dangerous as being with Sherlock-reckless-target-practice-Holmes.

 

While a very responsible person, Mycroft was not a self-sacrificing man. He liked his job and fully enjoyed it’s perks. He liked luxury, fine dining and expensive clothes. He also loved the Queen and Country, something John, as a soldier, could really relate to, even though he suspected that his England was different from Mycroft’s England. Where John’s life had football, pints in the pub with friends, crap telly, that he secretly enjoyed, and fry-ups on Sundays, Mycroft belonged to the elusive and almost extinct class of true English gentlemen. He loved his country, the traditions, conservatism, composure and politeness. He felt fiercely protective of it and its values. John suspected Mycroft secretly liked James Bond films, though so far, he had not been able to find any evidence for that. He had, however, discovered that in addition to his love for classical music, Mycroft secretly enjoyed show tunes. With enough cajoling and good whiskey he could even be persuaded to play some for John on his piano.

 

Mycroft was also a surprisingly attentive lover, be it in or outside the bedroom. He never pushed, never coerced and had the patience of a saint, actually enjoying taking things slow, savouring the act. He knew when John’s or his close relatives’ birthdays were or when something happened to distress John. Every time John would lose his job or girlfriend, either voluntarily or not, Mycroft was there to surprise him with dinner at a place that charged half his monthly salary or a weekend getaway to a ridiculously posh hotel. When asked, Mycroft pretended he had no idea anything had happened and that he had simply wanted to see John. John did not pursue the argument further and was secretly touched.

 

John, himself was used to be accommodating. After Sherlock, Mycroft could hardly be considered demanding. John made sure he did not ask questions about work, knowing that Mycroft would share tidbits of information if he was able, but outright questions would be met with suspicion and irritation. John was also not a needy, nor an overly affectionate person. Whenever his girlfriends wanted to cuddle on the couch, he would indulge them, even enjoyed it himself, but he did not instigate such behaviour himself. He was perfectly content in keeping physical affection restricted to the bedroom and so was Mycroft. Their domestic moments, if one could call them that, took place on mornings after John had stayed the night at Mycroft’s flat. Mycroft would usually be up before him, already dressed and working in his study. John would get up, take a shower, and make them both breakfast. Mycroft had a housekeeper of course, whom he would send away on days John stayed over. John was aware of this, but he enjoyed taking care of people and Mycroft would always indulge him. The rest of the morning would be spent in relative silence, John reading the paper, occasionally making a remark on something he had read, and Mycroft typing away at his computer or signing papers.

 

There were still days when John missed the danger, the thrill of a chase and his completely mad best friend, but those days were few and far between. So were the girlfriends. Overall he was content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m profoundly sorry for the lame fandom in-jokes, just not sorry enough to leave them out.


	5. Chapter 5

Three years after Sherlock was pronounced dead, he came back into John’s life. It probably should have been during some life-or-death situation with explosions all around them and Sherlock swooping in to save the day. Instead, John literally bumped into him stepping out of a cab when he was on his way back home to meet Mycroft. For a moment John thought he was hallucinating, that Sherlock had a twin brother or that he had seen a ghost, but when he saw the look of horrified surprise on Sherlock’s face he knew the explanation was much more logical: Sherlock Holmes was alive and had faked his own death. His hair was shorter, clothes different, but it was unmistakably Sherlock.

 

John felt different feelings wash over him like waves: surprise, confusion, hope, then all-consuming, incredible relief and joy, as if he finally was able to release a breath he did not know he had been holding for three years. Sherlock was alive, alive and well and standing in front of him.

 

Sherlock, having recovered from the shock of the encounter, started to edge away, looking around for an escape route, but John grabbed his arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

 

Sherlock, turning pale, looked around again. “We mustn’t be seen together, definitely not here.”

 

“Then come with me to my flat. You’re not getting away that easily, not without an explanation.”

 

Sherlock twitched and surveyed the surroundings again. Then, having made up his mind, hailed a taxi and bundled them both in. John only let go of Sherlock´s arm once the doors were secured.

 

In the silence of the cab, John´s initial joy was rapidly turning into anger. How could Sherlock have done this to him? All the pain he had gone through, the missing, the loneliness. And here he was, safe and sound, as if nothing had happened. And what about his brother? How could he have left Mycroft with all that guilt?

 

By the time they arrived at John’s flat, he was positively seething with rage.

 

“Explanation. Now. The short version,” he gritted out through his teeth.

 

“Moriarty. I knew he was going to try to make me kill myself so I arranged everything to make it seem that way. Just in case. He had instructed his criminal network to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade should I not die. He was of course the key to everything and I had been convinced I would be able to use him to call off the assassins. Had a whole plan thought out and everything. Didn´t expect him to see through that and top himself. That was…a setback.”

 

“You could have told me.”

 

“No, I couldn’t risk Moriarty finding out.”

 

“What about afterwards? After he shot himself. I don’t know, a text, Irene Adler style: ‘I’m not dead, let’s have dinner’.”

 

Sherlock fidgeted a little. “I couldn’t risk it. If those assassins would get the tiniest suspicion I wasn’t dead, they would execute their orders. Moriarty made sure of it. Besides, you already thought I was dead, had gone through watching me die. It didn’t matter anymore.”

 

“Didn’t ma…Jesus, Sherlock! Of course it mattered! Every minute that I thought you were dead, was a minute of more pain, of more guilt, more regret. To think that you would let me suffer, let all of us suffer, while you were out there…”

 

“While I was taking down Moriarty’s network, to protect all of you!”

 

They were both yelling now. Standing opposite each other in the middle of the room.

 

“I, I stood over your dead body. I took your _pulse_. Do you…”

 

“Now you see, there is this trick one can do with a rubber ball…”

 

“NO! I don’t want to hear your explanation of _how_ you did it. I’m sure it’s clever and amazing and brilliant, but I don’t care! I arranged your funeral. I stood over your grave. I mourned you, Sherlock. I grieved. Do you have any idea what your death put me through, you selfish cunt?”

 

“Selfish? Everything I’ve done was to protect you! To save your life!”

 

“It’s my life, don’t I get a say in that?”

 

“It wasn’t just your life. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, should I have endangered them too to give you a choice to die and expose myself to a crime syndicate after my head?”

 

 “And what about your brother? Do you have any idea how guilty he felt? Was it so difficult for you to get in touch with him? You know he would’ve kept your secret.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to interject something, then refrained. But the momentary confusion on his face said all John needed to know and the horrifying realization slowly dawned.

 

“Ah, but he did. He _has_ kept your secret, hasn’t he? He has known the entire time.” John let out a mirthless laugh. “I’m such an idiot. Of course he knew.” Multiple emotions were battling inside him; betrayal, pain, anger, self-loathing. He had no idea which would win and whether he would burst out in tears or maniacal laughter. For a moment they were both silent, Sherlock trying to come up with the right thing to say and John trying to get his emotions in check.

 

Mycroft, in a bout of particularly bad timing, chose that precise moment to bound up the stairs with a bounce in his step that usually signified him being in a particularly cheerful mood. As he opened the door and took in the faces of the room’s occupants his good mood immediately dissipated and he instinctively took a step backwards.

 

John swirled on the spot and fixed  his emotions, which had rapidly shifted back to anger, on Mycroft.

 

“How could you?! You lied and pretended you were mourning, you pretended you understood how I felt. But I suppose I’m just a Holmes’ plaything after all. What am I to you two? Some kind of pet? Amusing to keep around, but not smart or important enough to involve in your decisions.”

 

“J…John…” Mycroft stammered.

 

Surprising everyone, in a moment of helpless frustration, John swung his fist and punched Mycroft square in the face, rather hard. The surprising part was not necessarily the punch itself, it was Mycroft not dodging the punch, even though John knew he could have. To his credit, he did not go down, but swayed on his feet a little and held out his arms for balance. The resulting silence was deafening, with Sherlock staring at John as if he had suddenly grown a second head.

 

“You punched Mycroft in the face,” a statement made with more glee than Sherlock should display in this particular situation, where John was concerned. “I’ve never punched Mycroft, actually I’m pretty sure no one has ever punched Mycroft and lived to tell.” Sherlock sounded on the verge of erupting into a fit of giggles. Mycroft had stopped swaying, but still looked a bit bleary-eyed.

 

John had had enough, the army doctor in him taking over the situation. “You,” he physically pointed at Sherlock, as if the anger in his words was not enough to convey the message, “shut up and sit down, before I punch _you_ in the face.” To their both surprise, Sherlock complied immediately. “And you,” he added, addressing Mycroft this time, his voice less loud, but still firm, “come here, let me check your face.”

 

Even though he knew Mycroft was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, his doctor’s instincts warned him against a possible concussion or broken nose and his sensibilities bristled at having physically attacked someone he was intimately involved with.

 

He sat Mycroft down in a chair opposite Sherlock and, crouching in front of him, shone a light into his eyes. Then he carefully, but methodically touched Mycroft’s jaw. Satisfied that apart from a significant bruise and possibly a black eye, there was no further damage, John righted himself and crossed his arms.

 

In the ensuing silence Mycroft’s phone went off, but he turned it off and pocketed it without even looking at the screen. In all the years John had known him, he had never seen Mycroft do that. The peculiarity did not escape Sherlock’s attention either.

 

“Don’t tell me the Ice man has developed feelings,” Sherlock sneered, “how surprising.”

 

Mycroft did not miss a beat. “And the Virgin is still running away from his. How predictable.”

 

Sherlock’s spine straightened and his face turned red. He looked as if he was ready to attack. “I tried to protect him and I asked you to watch over him, not shag him! Your entanglement is not without risk to him. But I should have known. My brother ever doing something without personal gain? Did you consider him in debt to you for your protection? Some sort of compensation in natura?”

 

“How dare you?!” And that was another new experience: seeing Mycroft lose his composure, lose it completely. He was on his feet and about to take a swing at his brother.

 

“ENOUGH!” John bellowed jumping in-between the warring siblings. “I won’t stand for you two fighting over me like…, like I’m some toy.”

 

He turned towards Sherlock and pinned him down with a stare. “Stay put, I have to have a word with your brother, in private.” Sherlock looked taken aback that he was being excluded. Ignoring him for now, John led Mycroft into his bedroom and closing the door behind them, sat on the bed.

 

“He was wrong about me wanting… I didn’t plan…,” Mycroft started, uncomfortable and unsure of his place.

 

“I know.”

 

They were silent for a moment, John sitting down with his face in his hands, Mycroft pacing about the small bedroom.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew how much his death had hurt me, how much it was still hurting me. How could you look at me and not say a thing?” John’s anger had been replaced by sadness and he looked tired and weary.

 

Mycroft reached out to touch John’s face, then reconsidered and let his hand fall along his body.

 

“I’m good at keeping secrets. That is what I do. I never wanted, nor asked anything of you. I didn’t make any promises either.” For a moment it seemed that Mycroft would leave it at that, but then he sighed and added: “At first I thought Sherlock was right. You were safer not knowing. You were the prime target, if they would find out even our combined resources would not keep you out of harm’s way. We did not know who they were or how far Moriarty’s web reached. But as time went by…I got…selfish, I suppose,” John’s head shot up at that admission. “I knew if I would tell you, you would never forgive me. I liked being a part of your life. I knew there would come a day when I would have to step aside and let my brother take his rightful place by your side, but I had no intention of bringing this about myself.”

 

John shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe Sherlock basically called me a…”

 

“He hasn’t,” Mycroft interjected. “He was trying to get a rise out of me, not thinking about other emotional consequences his words could have. He does that.

John, I realise you are upset and angry with both of us, as you have every right to be, but I’m hoping you can find it in your heart to forgive my brother. For all his crassness and insensitivity, he really cares for you. His main concern in this whole debacle has always been your safety. You should have seen him the past three years. He missed you, he was hurting. He needs you. I understand if you can’t trust me, or if you don’t want to see me anymore, but don’t turn him away, he will be devastated.”

 

Mycroft turned to leave until his cuff was caught by John. “Where do you think you’re going? You don’t get to leave here until I have had the opportunity to yell at you, throw a hissy-fit and have you two grovelling for my forgiveness.” While his tone was firm, the twinkling in his eye betrayed that the forgiveness would be granted in the end.

 

To the untrained eye Mycroft did not visibly react, but to someone like John, who had had years to learn and catalogue Mycroft’s little quirks and peculiarities it was crystal clear his statement was met with extreme relief. It showed in how Mycroft’s eyes opened a little wider, how the corners of his mouth quirked up a tiny bit and how his form lost some of its rigidness.

 

“John…” His hand reached out again, with an ever so slight tremor, this time reaching its destination and stroking John’s cheek with almost unbearable tenderness.

 

“I’m not letting you off easily, mind. Neither of you. You’ll going to have to work for my forgiveness.”

 

John smiled, then jumped to his feet. “Come on, let’s talk to the overgrown kid.”

 

 

*** End of chapter

 

Notes (too long to put in the actual end notes screen, forgive me):

A lovely friend of mine who asked to remain anonymous has written me a long concrit e-mail. I would like to share some of her remarks and my answers to them here. Not to ask for you to defend me (please don't!), but to explain some things that may not be clear/give a bit of a background. (This is also posted here to encourage you all to post concrit or ask questions.) I have tried to use as many of her remarks in further chapters (chapter 6 and 7), but some things I cannot change without rewriting the whole fic, so I've chosen this route. I have also decided I will write short, stand-alone-ish fillers that tie-in with this fic's verse, so keep checking my profile for those.

Feel free to ignore the following, if you're ok with your own understanding of the events and don't want to read my meta-ish ramblings.

 

 _> The biggest question from the start until now for me is: "What is this story really about? What are you trying  to tell?"_  
   
I can understand it may feel like it's not really going anywhere. That's because it's not really meant to be a gripping tale, or a sweeping romance. I'm trying to tell a story about these three men, how they interact, what they feel and how they try to fit together. One of my favourite quotes is "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans". And this fic is very much about that. Sherlock and John were supposed to be friends with an underlying sexual tension who solved crimes together and Mycroft was supposed to be the one in the shadows, looking after them, but never interfering. Then Reichenbach happened and suddenly everything was turned on its head: John had to re-evaluate his life and deal with the feelings that have been ignored before, Mycroft suddenly had to step in and was placed in a situation he was unaccustomed to: interaction with the object of his affection, which then lead to the events in the story. Then the two had to adjust to that.  
So if you're waiting for some intricate plot with secret agendas, I'm afraid I'm going to have to disappoint.  
 

_> Then there is John he suddenly has sex with, who suddenly meets Sherlock again and I don't get what it really is you want to point out._

_One problem why I might don't get you on this:  
_

_Time-frame.  
_

_It changes abruptly, every now and then. I see you use this as an element of style but time is important for emotions and how to build them, at least to me, during the read.  
_

_The time between John's mourning and the sex with Mycroft feels very short to me and in this last chapter John suddenly meets Sherlock again, after three years and then just by accident? I couldn't really feel the whole conversation._

_  
It dawned on me that, maybe, you just want to write the crucial parts of interaction and adumbrate the rest. These crucial parts are very well written and emotional but without the inbetween parts very hard to connect with.  
You know, Reichenbach was a shock. A story after Reichenbach is packed with so much emotion between Sherlock and John. This is a part you can't skip so easily and as a reader I feel you are mostly interested in Mycroft. _

I have tried to explain the 'sudden' sex in the comments to the previous part, so I'll keep that explanation very brief, if you don't mind. I think it depends on personal standards if you think the sex was fast. Some of my friends who have read it said they would probably have behaved the same, some said they would not. To me John and Mycroft would. Why? You have John-three-continents-Watson (actually called that on the BBC blog!) who seems not really fussy about sex, including casual sex, who desperately needs a distraction and Mycroft who has harboured attraction for the good doctor for a while (and who is NOT mourning for Sherlock as this chapter explains), and they are put in an emotionally, unexpected situation. To me, yes, this could produce sex. But if it does not work in your head, that's aright. I mean, fics and characterisations are very personal.

Yes, the time is used as an element of style, that was the whole premise of the story. Actually it was meant to just be short snippets out of their life, whenever something crucial happens, indicating how they change and adapt. I've used chapter 4 to kind of describe how the relationship between John and Mycroft developed, from mutual comfort and one-night stands, to something more permanent and solid, but I may have failed at that.I did not feel like writing countless chapters about them shagging, drinking tea, having meals, and occasionally going to the theater. Because, well, boring. Also there would not be any grand emotional declarations of love. I feel that would be extremely ooc for all persons involved.

 

The meeting between Sherlock and John was sudden and accidental on purpose. For John, it would of course be a shock, no matter how or when he would see him again, I think you would agree with me on that. But I wanted it to be a shock for Sherlock too, to put him off-guard, as that tends to reveal more about a person. He was not ready to deal with John or the situation. How would it have been otherwise? Would he have orchestrated some grand scheme to come back in a way that would placate John? Would he have pushed Mycroft to break off their relationship before he came back? (Oh yeah, my Sherlock would definitely do that. Like I said, he is not such a nice guy in my head as you see him) Would Mycroft have allowed it? But this is a different road.

The accidental meeting is also to show Sherlock is not infallible, no matter how much he thinks he is. He makes mistakes. And with him hunting the crime syndicate which is presumably located in London, it was just a matter of time John and Sherlock would accidentally bump into each other.   
 

_> Another example for my problem of connecting: Mycroft is so sweet to John, when did Mycroft turn into such a lovely man? I mean, as a reader I can only refer to the Mycroft of the series and I can't read your mind on why you think he acts like that (which is unknown from the series).  
_

_What about his internal struggle? Him being all emotional all of a sudden and in love with the best friend of his brother. Has there been a secret affection for John from the start and now it's kind of exploding because the odds have changed? Now that would be an interesting way to start a story of this particular triangle._

Oh, but is he, though? A lovely man? Do I love Mycroft? Yes, I do. However, I am not writing from my point of view, I'm writing from John's. John is involved with Mycroft, so is bound to exaggerate his good qualities and overlook his bad, like we all do, like he does with Sherlock in the series. John is a very unreliable narrator.

  


If you look at Mycroft's actions through objective, not through John's eyes, the picture changes: Mycroft made a pass at John when he was most vulnerable emotionally, despite knowing John had feelings for Sherlock and Sherlock had feelings for John, despite knowing Sherlock was not dead and wanted to come back as soon as possible. He could have told John Sherlock was alive, but he didn't because that might make John leave him, or reconsider their relationship. Still think Mycroft is a saint? He loves his brother and has feelings for John, but he is not self-less. He is a master manipulator and knows how to read and play people, even though the reasons for doing so are affection in this case, but don't underestimate him. Was he staying away from John while Sherlock was in the picture out of respect, or because he knew that as long as Sherlock was there, he did not stand a chance? Did he tell John to forgive Sherlock in this chapter, because he wanted to save their friendship or to appear nice, to appear more mature about the situation than Sherlock? Which it is, it's for the reader to decide, but don't let Mycroft fool you so easily.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry it took such a long time to update. I’ve had some issues with work, new apartment and health. Also this chapter kind of ran away from me and turned out a lot longer than anticipated. But here it is. The plot thickens!

Three weeks after Sherlock came back, John moved back into 221B Baker Street. He had no idea how they had managed to convince him, or how everything was arranged so fast, but before he knew it, he was packing the few belongings he possessed into boxes and had some of his bedroom furniture dismantled and pushed into a van. He had no idea where the movers or the van had come from, but he suspected that Mycroft had something to do with it.

The brothers had argued, nagged and cajoled, until moving back seemed the most logical thing to do. That now they should expect that Sherlock´s scheme had been found out, it was safer to put the three people in danger in one place, as neither John, nor Mrs. Hudson and definitely not Sherlock would agree to be moved into police protection, so they could focus the surveillance. Mycroft had also tripled the security around Lestrade. Just in case. John was sure some of the reasoning was sound, but probably had not much to do with the brothers´ real intentions.

 

John had tried to stay angry with them, but had failed. After a night´s rest he had realized that Mycroft had been put in a difficult position he had no influence on himself and being angry with him was not really fair. While John was sure that Mycroft had feelings for him, he had made a promise to Sherlock. Even beside Mycroft not being a person who would break a promise lightly or tell someone else´s secret, he had dedicated his life to keeping his brother as safe and happy as possible. He would never do anything to harm him or drive him away.  Despite their sibling rivalry and mutual misunderstandings, John was convinced Mycroft would without any hesitation walk into a burning building to safe Sherlock. John could sympathise with that, because so would he. He had a weak spot for the younger Holmes. Ever since he had met the mad genius, he had known there was some connection between them. The feeling he wanted to and could trust Sherlock, would do anything for him. He had even killed without a second though for him on their first day together. That had set the tone of their relationship.

Now that Sherlock was back, that feeling of belonging and natural affection was back, as strong as ever and the brothers had skilfully used it to persuade John to move back to Baker Street. Although, secretly, John had not needed much persuading. He had never really felt at home in his new apartment in Notting Hill, it was too new, too clean. He had missed Mrs. Hudson, he even had missed the ghastly wallpaper with bullet holes in it, but most of all he had missed his flatmate.

After hardly a month of being reunited with Sherlock, they were chasing after some thug who may or may not have been part of Moriarty´s crime ring.  With the adrenalin pumping in his veins, a pain in his side from running and Sherlock shouting commands, John felt gloriously and utterly alive.

 

It was ridiculously easy to slip into their old routine of crime solving, blogging and bickering about chores, but not everything was the same. In Sherlock´s absence John had had plenty of time to come to terms with his feelings for his flatmate to know that those feelings had not been purely platonic. His relationship with Mycroft had additionally taught him the pleasure that could be had with another man and how to appreciate the aesthetics of the male body. He knew where to look now, and with Sherlock there was plenty to look at.

John had always known that Sherlock was attractive, but now it was as if he had been illuminated and John had to stop himself from staring. The way the pale expanse of his long neck was accentuated by the unbuttoned first two buttons of his dress shirt. The way his clothes hugged his body, revealing every lean plain. His hands. Long fingers caressing the strings of his violin. John wondered if they would be just as talented when caressing skin instead of wood. His lips. Every time they gasped open in a perfect o, John´s mind produced a Technicolor image of how they would look wrapped around his… No! He was not supposed to think about his friend like that! Especially not while he was in a relationship with said friend´s brother.

But Sherlock did not make things easy for him. Ever since his return he had even more disregard for John´s personal space than before, constantly leaning on him to look at his computer screen, standing very close, crowding him in the kitchen. When John watched tv on the couch, Sherlock would either plonk his feet or his head in John´s lap, demanding to be, well, petted, for the lack of better description. He claimed that it helped him think.

When Sherlock began to walk around in a bath towel and leaving the bathroom door open as he showered, John started to suspect all that behaviour was intentional. He was just not sure what the goal was. So he fled to the one person who was somewhat able to speak Sherlock.

 

Mycroft had been expecting John for dinner and set out to brew them a cup of tea, but as he took in John´s nervous fidgeting, he abandoned his task and went straight for the liquor cabinet. John eagerly received a glass of brandy as Mycroft set down opposite of him, nursing his whiskey.

“What’s troubling you, John?”

John took a substantial swing of his drink and shifted around on his chair a bit. He looked at Mycroft from across the table and then looked away.

“I think Sherlock is…flirting with me.”

The outraged reaction he expected never came. Instead, Mycroft looked slightly amused.

“Yes, I reckon he is.”

“But, why, in god’s name?!”

“Why does anyone flirt with anyone?” Mycroft asked, sipping his drink.

“Yes, well, but Sherlock isn’t quite like anyone else, is he?”

“No, but he is not super-human, John. He too has feelings, even though he usually chooses not to show them.”

John knew all this, of course he knew. He just did not expect that those kind of feelings could ever be directed towards him. He thought that maybe Sherlock was disapproving of his relationship with Mycroft, or jealous that he spent his time with his brother and tried to lure him away like this.

“So you’re saying, what? That he is attracted to me? In love with me?” The notion boggled John’s mind if he was completely honest.

“Yes, I reckon. Although it´s hard to say if Sherlock could ever admit to being in love, even to himself,” answered Mycroft. Still completely calm. 

“Since when?”

“Since longer than he probably realized or wanted to admit to himself,” Mycroft sighed and sat up in his chair; a man preparing to have a conversation he was not looking forward to. “Sherlock has the tendency to draw attention to himself. When my brother walks into a room, all eyes are on him, people are interested. Then he opens his mouth and they run for cover.” John chuckled. “Except for you. You stayed, and proved to be not only able to put up with him, but also more loyal, patient, and clever than he expected. Than either of us expected. You are special, you got through the walls. He was intrigued, then enthralled, then he started to care.”

“Then why didn’t he say anything?”

“Sherlock, as well as myself, is  a creature of habit. Why change anything if it works? The way you two are together. You’re practically a couple. You live together, work together, you fit. Everyone already assumed you slept together as well.”

“Ok, so what changed? Why is Sherlock making it an issue now?”

“He is not as sure you will stay with him as he used to be anymore. He’s been away for a long time. He knows he hurt you. He probably thinks I want to take you from him.” The last sentence was delivered with a sad smile, as if Mycroft was hurt, but not surprised that his brother would think that about him.

John sat back in his chair and downed the rest of the whiskey in one gulp. “I don’t know how to deal with this information,” he honestly declared.

“It seems quite straight forward to me. He obviously cares for you and tries to initiate a romantic relationship with you. You obviously are interested. It appears you want the same thing.”

“Mycroft? Why are you so certain I will just up and leave you at Sherlock’s beck and call? Frankly that’s pretty insulting.” John dropped his glass on the table with more force than necessary, got up and walked to the living room.

Mycroft sighed, but got up and followed him nonetheless. He stopped in the doorway, regarding John’s pacing figure with a level gaze. “I’ve always known you had feelings for my brother, John. I’ve entered this relationship fully aware of that. Now that he is back it just seems the natural progression of things. There is no need to spare my feelings, I can assure you.” The slightly clipped tone with which the last sentence was uttered, betrayed Mycroft’s annoyance with what he perceived as John trying to lie to both Mycroft and himself.

“That’s not it.”

“You love my brother, correct?”

“Yes, but it’s not that…”

“And you are sexually attracted to him?” Mycroft continued, walking to the settee and sitting gingerly on one side.

“I… yes.”

“He feels the same. You live together. He can give you the things I can’t. He can involve you in his life the way I’m unable to. He can provide the adventure you so crave. John, I’d rather you be honest with me,” finished Mycroft, his tone softening again.

John scrubbed his hands over his face and dropped himself on the settee next to Mycroft. “Honesty? The truth is a lot more complicated than you make it out to be. I love Sherlock. Have loved him as a friend for years. My best friend. Yes, I am attracted to him. But Sherlock, he’s both too much and not enough. It’s like you said. When he walks into a room, he lights up the place. But he has the tendency to consume you. He had taken over my life so fast and so completely, it was sometimes hard to see myself as something else than Sherlock’s blogger, assistant, friend. A relationship with him would mean he’ll govern every aspect of my life. An I don’t think I can allow that. When he disappeared I,” John audibly swallowed and closed his eyes, “it was like my whole world was plunged in darkness. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. But it’s not just the fear of something happening to him. When Sherlock looks at you, it’s like you’re the single most important thing in the world. All that intellect and intensity focussed on you is such a heady feeling. It’s addictive. And then he looks away. And forgets you are even in the room.” John’s smiled sadly. “I know he doesn’t mean for it to hurt, probably isn’t even aware that it does, but it’s hard.” Mycroft is speechless for a moment, because of course he knows all this about his brother, but it is still confronting to hear John say it out loud.

John turns to face Mycroft more directly and continues. “You know who looks at me in the same studying fashion? You do. Yet you don’t turn away when you find something else more interesting. You take the time to listen to my ramblings and my boring every-day problems, my ill-informed views on politics even though it’s probably tedious to you. You take time for niceties, anniversaries. I need that bit of normality in my life, Mycroft, or I’ll go mad. I like what we have. I don’t want to give it up. Do you?”

Mycroft smiled. One of those extremely rare, unguarded, genuine smiles which lights up his eyes. “No John, I don’t.” Then his expression turned thoughtful. “You know that our relationship will not deter Sherlock from pursuing you, right?” John reluctantly nodded. “And that no matter what you say, he is very much a temptation?” The next nod took even more time and looked more uncomfortable.

Mycroft’s smile tuned sly. “Well, you know what  Oscar Wilde said about temptation, the only way to get rid of it is to yield to it.”

John was confused. Mycroft couldn’t be implying that… “I don’t un…”

“I’ve never had a problem sharing you with your temporary girlfriends, did I? Why would you think I’d be jealous of my own brother?” Mycroft was clearly enjoying John’s blushing uncertainty.

“Are you saying, you’d be ok with me and Sherlock…”

“It would make sense. He can give you the things I can’t and vice versa. It is the best solution, really.”

John was stunned for a moment. That outcome had never crossed his mind and it was a little overwhelming to even consider.

“And you would really be alright with this?”

“Yes, John,” answered Mycroft, a little mirth creeping into his voice.

“What about Sherlock”

“Ah, well, he might be a bit more difficult to convince. He always did find it difficult to share as a child and he can be awfully possessive.”

Suddenly John’s phone beeped a distinct text alert.

“Speaking of the devil…” John looked at the screen and rolled his eyes. “I’m being summoned.”

“A case?”

“Could be. Could also be that Sherlock lost his pen and wants me to get him another. Or he just wants a cup of tea. Well, he can stuff it. He knows I’m with you and planned on staying the night.”

“You want to go.”

“No, I want to be with you and thank you for being the most patient and understanding man I know.” John leaned in to give Mycroft a kiss just as his phone beeped insistently again. He hung his head and groaned.

“Go. If you don’t and it’s a case you’ll regret it.”

John sighed as Mycroft kissed him on the cheek.

“Yeah, yeah, love you too,” he murmured.

Mycroft froze in his tracks, John a moment later as the full realization of what he had just said hit him. Then he relaxed, let out a breath and repeated, firm and convinced this time: “I love you too.”

The phone started to ring. The tension was broken and they both laughed.

“Go, for goodness sake before he comes over to physically retrieve you!”

John smiled, grabbed his coat and running out of the door finally answered his phone.

 

It did turn out to be a case. A case that sent them running around London for the next 72 hours after a drug dealer whose self-made ecstasy happened to be lethal. They caught the guy in an abandoned warehouse, had Lestrade take him in, went home and tumbled, exhaustedly, into their separate beds.

John was surprised at how, all considering, uneventful the next month unfolded. There were some minor cases, he saw Mycroft only three times as they were both busy with work, and Sherlock had been his inappropriately touchy self, but nothing too out of the ordinary to make John call him out on it.

Then a body turned up in a garbage truck.

The murderer was very clever, he had chosen a truck which was destined to offload directly into a furnace, which would likely dispose of all evidence. Unfortunately for him, the truck crashed into a lorry an tipped, spilling its load all over the A3. Sherlock deduced that the murder was methodical, clean, the work of a serial killer. After a city sweep, more bodies were found in graveyards, garbage dumps and an abandoned incinerator. Sherlock narrowed the potential suspects down to a garbage man with a high IQ and sociopathic tendencies, which still left a large number of people. When they finally found the right person on paper, it was still a tremendous effort to locate him in reality. Once Anthony Morgan realized he was being hunted, he went underground. Literally. He had an extensive knowledge of the London sewer system and used it to his advantage. After three hours of wading through floating excrement John was cursing the killer, Sherlock, himself , his life and all the deities he could remember.

Without a warning, Sherlock took off in a sprint and disappeared behind a bend. John cursed and went after him, but his momentary distraction caused him to lag behind and when he ran out of a tunnel into an open space that branched out in three different directions, there was no trace of Sherlock or the murderer. John heard a noise behind him, but before he could turn, he was grabbed from behind. Trying to shake his assailant off, he lurched to the side, smacking them both into the side of the tunnel. His head collided painfully with the brick wall and for a moment the resulting dizziness caused him to lose the upper hand and his gun disappeared into the slush on the ground. John curled in on himself, preparing for a blow, but the murderer unexpectedly collapsed to reveal Sherlock standing behind him with a brick in his hand and a worried expression on his face.

 As they dragged the unconscious man to ground level, they were greeted by police sirens. Lestrade had dispatched back-up as soon as Sherlock had texted him with the suspect’s likely hiding place. The DI took one look at them and send them home to clean up with the promise to come over the next day to debrief them.

They tried to hail a cab, but no driver in his right mind would let them soil the seats with sewer water and stink up the place, so they ended up walking the short distance to 221B. Sherlock was beaming with the happiness of another successful case. John was still vibrating with the adrenalin of another near death experience. It worked like a drug, numbing down any bruises or strained muscles he knew he was likely to have. He was therefore surprised when Sherlock gave him a once-over, grabbed his face and turned it to the side.

“You’re bleeding,” a statement of fact, but there was a slight edge of worry there.

“Oh,” John said wiping the side of his head with his hand. It came back bloody. “Must have scraped it against the brick wall when Morgan jumped me.

Meanwhile they had reached the door to their apartment and were climbing the stairs.

“Besides, nothing new, right? Tell me, why is it always me? I get hit, tackled, kidnapped and threatened at gunpoint all the time.” Sherlock opened the door of their flat with a tiny smile as John continued to complain. “I mean, considering _you_ are chasing them or the other way around, it’s hardly fair I’m always the target.”

“Well John, you _are_ terribly reckless.”

John blanched, then gave Sherlock a shove. “You tit!” Sherlock laughed and pushed him back. John grabbed onto his coat for support, but Sherlock used that momentum to turn them around and pin John against the wall.  Suddenly with them so close they could feel each other´s breath, the situation lost its playfulness. Sherlock´s pupils grew and he kept on glancing down to John´s lips. John swallowed and repressed a shiver, his body growing hot in places it met Sherlock´s. Then Sherlock squared his shoulders and made a decision. His hand reached out and pulled John´s head towards him, pressing their lips together with urgency.

The kiss was cathartic, years of suppressed curiosity, arousal and longing finally finding an outlet. John´s hands entwined in Sherlock´s hair of their own accord, pushing and pulling, teeth clashing, tongues exploring deeper as if trying to consume each other. The only sound John heard was the pounding of blood in his ears. The smell surrounding him was Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

Shit.

John´s eyes shot open and in a bout of panic he pushed Sherlock away so hard he overbalanced and landed on the floor on his ass, looking absolutely bewildered. It would have been funny if the situation had not the potential of ruining John´s life.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry, I can’t. Not like this,” he started, scrubbing his hands over his face. He was aware that no matter what he was going to say would mess up everything, so he decided to be as honest and straight forward as possible. “You’re my best friend and I care very deeply for you. That’s why I must tell you this before we do something either of us will regret.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I find you very enticing. I’ll even admit that I love you. Have loved you for a long time. But I love Mycroft as well. I made a commitment to him. We’re happy together. I love you and I want you. God, you have no idea how much I want you. I’ll be your friend or I’ll be more, that’s your decision, but I won’t dump Mycroft at your whim. I’m not giving him up.”

Sherlock’s face distorted with contained fury and without saying a word, he got up and was out of the door in a heartbeat.

John let his head fall into his hands and wondered, not for the first time, how he had managed to get himself into this mess.

He sat like this for a few moments, until he noted the state of his clothes. He shucked them and headed for the shower. In the shower, he was struck with the realization of the most likely place Sherlock was off to. Not wishing to let the brothers be together unsupervised too long for fear of loss of life or limb, John pulled his clothes on without properly towelling off, grabbed his coat and ran down the stairs.

Unfortunately, John did not possess Sherlock´s magical abilities to conjure up a taxi out of thin air, and after waiting ten minutes and only seeing occupied cabs, he was forced to telephone for one.

By the time he arrived at Mycroft´s flat, there was no sign that Sherlock had been there apart from a light flush on Mycroft´s face and the fact that the man was up and about at 3 am. Other than that he looked composed and greeted John with a genuine smile. John answered with his sheepish look and rubbed the back of his neck as he walked into the flat.

“I suppose Sherlock’s already been and gone?”

“My brother has indeed vacated the premises about twenty minutes ago.”

“God, I’m so sorry, Mycroft. I should have stopped him, or at least gone after him immediately, but I’m afraid, it didn’t immediately click as to where he would be off to.”

“That’s alright, John. I’m used to Sherlock’s dramatics and I’m perfectly capable of dealing with him. It was going to happen sooner or later anyway. You didn’t have to come here in the middle of the night, I’m sure you’ve had enough excitement for one day.” Mycroft gave him a once-over and frowned. “Make sure you get that injury checked out.”

John’s hand absent-mindedly rubbed the side of his head where he noticed a bump was starting to form. “Oh that. It’s nothing. Had worse. So what horribleness did Sherlock dish out? Do I even want to know?”

“Oh, the usual. He called me some interesting and very creative names, threatened bodily harm and nearly took the door off its hinge on his way out.”

John chuckled. “And what did you say?”

“I calmly explained that I did not, in fact, set you up against him, nor am I adverse to his involvement with you. As you may have guessed, he did not take it very well. He is always so disappointed whenever I fail his assigned role of the Antichrist and the bane of his existence.” Suddenly growing solemn, Mycroft added: “John, I know this is a difficult situation for all concerned and for once I cannot predict the outcome. All I can say is give Sherlock time and let’s hope for both your sakes he cares more for you than for his misguided pride.”     

John sighed and squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “I feel like the scum of the earth for causing this.”

“For what? Being honest? Following your heart? Oh John, that’s exactly why me and my brother like you so much. Don’t worry. I know you think you’ve driven a wedge between Sherlock and me, but honestly, it has always been there. If it wasn’t you, Sherlock would have found something else to blame me for. I’m actually glad there is finally an issue I care about enough to dig my heels in and not let him get his way. I suspect you can sympathise with that?”

Mycroft then went to get John a towel for his still damp hair and made them tea. He asked if John wanted to stay, but he reluctantly declined, wanting to be at home, should Sherlock come back and want to talk about it.

As it turned out, he did not have to have bothered. Sherlock stayed out until noon the next day and when he finally did come home while John slept, he locked himself in his room with and experiment.

He continued to ignore John for the next week. John let him, not wanting to provoke his wrath. So when after 8 days of silent treatment Sherlock was suddenly in front of him, staring him down, with hands on his hips and said “Alright,” it took John a moment to realise he was talking about a possible sexual relationship between the two of them and John’s continued involvement with Mycroft.

“I will not ask you to end things with Mycroft.” John smiled. “On three conditions. One: I am to be considered forgiven.” John was surprised that while Sherlock had been pretending everything was perfectly fine and back to normal between them, he had apparently still felt guilty for what his faked death had done to John. John was pleased. He had already forgiven him some time ago of course.

“Two: no more girlfriends.” John did not really mind that. With the two Holmes’ brothers on his hands, he had more than enough excitement in his life.

“And three: as you will have Mycroft for such things, we will not engage in sentiment.”

“Sentiment?”

“You know, couples things.” Sherlock pronounced the two words as if he was talking about something vile.

“Oh you mean, like watching telly together, snuggling on the couch, having dinner together, bicker over groceries…”

 “Oh how to shut him up!” Sherlock cried. Then proceeded to apply the mouth-to-mouth approach to silencing John, who did not object.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the severe lack of porn, I promise to remedy that in the new missing scenes series I intend to start soon, but first there is still one more chapter to go.
> 
> As always, all comments are very much appreciated, even negative ones.


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